


Briefly

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [103]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Skin Hunger, Touch Aversion, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28614102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: ...I wrote this really, really late at night, so if it sounds odd there's my excuse.
Series: DS Extras [103]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Kudos: 18





	Briefly

"May I?" Wilson asked, one long autumn night before the warm fire pit, camp quiet in the others' deep, more restful sleeps.

Maxwell had hesitated, dark pitch black eyes narrow, a tense air about him for a few moments.

Before slowly holding his hand out, arm pulling away from curling tight in his lap, stiff shoulders falling from where he had previously hunched down under the chilly night air.

"...Just this once." He had muttered, gaze turning away, back to the fire, ignoring how Higgsbury scooted a bit closer, the slightest twist of curiosity and keen interest, the smallest threat of soft gentleness that flashed over his rugged face, the beginnings of his winter beard having thickened out somewhat. What Maxwell's voice may have lacked in firmness seemed to have been imbibed with a more apathetic air, a careless mask to hold in place and continue ignorance, but the instant Wilson's clammy hands reached up in contact with his own the charade of indifference was much harder to portray.

Maxwell had played the stage, once upon a time; the magician under those blinding dusty old lights, thrilling echo of a voice deepened as to fill the chambers, reach the ears of any and all who had paid money to view his shows, was not the same man who had walked the streets from hotel to theater, knocked quiet and polite and vaguely nervous upon the backdoor, bowed his head briefly to the staff as to show his appreciation for their work without confrontation, who sat backstage in the small closet of space he had been able to pay for, Codex in hand and the softer knocking of his assistant warning him _"3 minutes, Maxy, and then we're on!"._

Playing a part can only hold for so long; the Nightmare King had stuck to his lines, grinned that wicked toothed smile in mixed up facade, and the man upon the Throne had slumped down, drooled and drowned himself and his woes with what They offered him in all ways.

In essence, Maxwell could not help but flinch the moment Wilson's hands made contact to his own. It was a sharp, winced movement, the briefest of snarls on the old former Kings face, before he shook himself out of it, buried it away and grasped uselessly at the mask of now, after Throne and yet still of the Constant. It was not a flimsy one, for sure, but Wilson's eyes narrowed for the briefest of moments, gaze flashing over Maxwell's face, and for a moment those bone talons and clammy warm palms loosened, hesitated.

"...Well, what are you waiting for?" Maxwell only gave him a glance, snarly and dark eyes distant, "Pal, if you are having second thoughts-"

"No no, not at all." Wilson tightened his grip, lightly tugged, guided the old man's arm away from retreating back to his lap, folded and curled in on itself like some grand, bare bones spider, and Maxwell glowered at him with a grumpy squint for a moment before looking away with an exasperated, tinged nervous huff. 

The dismissal was enough, Maxwell recognized, side eyeing Wilson as the man's gaze turned downward, and yet, even with his own forewarnings, internal and firm, there was not much help for when those hands went to his glove and started easing it off.

The fabric snagged as it usually did, just around the middle and ring finger, a slight hook to his thumb, and Wilson slowed down at this quickly enough, his bone talons carefully easing the worn, softened leather out and off, away from where Maxwell had placed them for who knows how long. The sensation, of dull bone claws that scraped gently over his skin, plucked at the leather and then easily, carefully peeled away the glove entirely from his hand. 

Maxwell averted his eyes fully then, an unsettled lump rising to sit, a fat toad of dark, indigestible, unwanted memory and emotion, to crest the top of his throat. It made swallowing difficult, even more so when, after a brief pause as Wilson set aside the worn out glove, Maxwell tensed up at the touch of clammy shadow darkened skin to his own bastardizations of Them and all They wish to bring life to. 

Sensitive to the faint lukewarm heat, tingling that coursed in paths from the touches to his skin to wrist, then shooting up his arm to coil and then spill down his spine, pool and root sickeningly upwards to his unprepared mind, this action of another's touch, brushing a clawed thumb over his darkened knuckles before suddenly, gently curling under and rising his hand upwards.

A quiet sound, like a sigh but not out of exasperation, or displeasure, and Maxwell blinked open his eyes, the firelight flickering strong and passionate in the aura of chilly fall night, before his gaze flicked over to where the other man held his hand.

"Fascinating…" Wilson breathed out, his warmed breath brushing over Maxwells offered hand, and his own talons twitched, the slightest curl as he fought off the goosebumps, the sudden thrill of a shiver up and down his spine. The mans expression was open, clear cut and yet so brazenly displayed, eyes wide and glittering with focus, interest, almost awe in some way or another, and Maxwell grit his jaw as those dull bone claws started to, gently abet firmly, brush and trail touch atop his own shadow infused skin.

Something biting almost rose to his tongue, a snap of irritation, but that got swallowed down, a heavy heaved exhale from Maxwell's nose when one of those touchy, exploritive hands dipped a bit, pressed a dull thumb up into the middle of his darkened palm, causing his taloned, shadow infused hand to twitch into an almost full curl. The sharp talons, disfigured shadow mass in the oily swatches of his sensitive skin, barely scraped the other mans wandering hands, just briefly pricked against Maxwells own palm, and the slightest of ticklish nature graced him with enough of his senses.

But Wilson was far more intuitive, guided Maxwells hand back, slipping one hand atop his dark palm, bone clawed fingers curling, entwining with his own talons for a moment. His other hand had drifted once more, pet almost appreciatively over his oily knuckles, pressed steady against the inky sheen of his infused skin, those bone claws not quite dulled down enough to be smooth but just rugged enough to feel the chips, the slightest hitch from each sweeping movement over his sensitive skin.

Maxwell swallowed thickly, eyes turned away, the slightest shiver, tense energy about his arm, his shoulder, and each touch, each luke warmed, faintly scraping touch-

It sent shivering butterflys from his gut up his spine, scattering his more aggravated thoughts away, fledgling birds as they grew in their new feathers and hopped from tree branch to tree branch before finally taking that one last step into open free air. Such poetic thoughts came to mind, as he fought to not swallow his own tongue, to yank away and curl in within himself once more, the nerves of his skin aflame with sparking warmth that was stringing roots up through his arm, up to encase his twitching shoulder, up his neck and spread through his mind.

In other words, Maxwell tried very, very hard to not cause a scene, especially not one first thought out and scripted. He had tried his hand with winging it, once, ad-libbing; the grand magician then had only found moderate success in allowing others to put their words to his mouth.

Wilson, on the other hand, pun not quite intended, was deeply engrossed with what little his own shadow twisted features could pick up in sensation. His bone talons, a curse from Them in near all respects, so very differed with these oily blackened talons, sharp and tapered thin, oddly inky when entwined with the dull bone of his own make. Not quite nightmare fuel infused, he thought, though as he allowed his own hand to trail from palm and knuckles to top of bony sharp wrist upwards, more smooth, oily dark skin, he could see the fade away, the much paler skin of the old man at just above the inner elbow.

There the veins bulged, engorged with thick flowing lifeblood that seemed to fade with only a dark aftershade left within the skin, and for a moment Wilson was reminded of the first time he had set eyes upon the then pawned Nightmare King, dusted to ash and salt before the Nightmare Throne and then, once more, so suddenly alive in the dark dusk as the Constant entered nightfall.  
Back then the man had been so very much paler, almost transparent lucid skin, the palest sheen of unearthly eldritch etherealness.

That faded quickly away, and Wilson perhaps saw the lasting remarks of such an existence only now.

Maxwell's breath had grown shallow, narrowed thin as he focused against the indescribable urge to untangle, break away from the allowed, agreed upon touch, and yet it hitched sharp and rattled wheezily when those clammy hands carefully turned his hand, palm upwards, and one-

Carefully, softly scraped a lone bone claw against the soft, sensitive skin of his wrist.

Words curdled inwards, a burst of a rattling exhale as he squinted a somewhat blurry glare at the other man, but Wilson wasn't paying him any mind, too deeply engrossed with his exploration.

For his part, Wilson did not ask. His dull claws brushed as faintly as he could be aware of atop the oily black skin and sharp jutted wrist bones, faint bulge of aged veins, and then the thick, much too visible scar tissue that littered his skin

 _Old times_ , Maxwell almost hissed, just about ready to spit at the much too inquisitive man, _mistakes I both allowed and did not care for, past and present._

He appreciated it, greatly, when Wilson sucked in a deep breath of air and turned his attention elsewhere, clawed hands dragging away, one cupping his knuckles palm up, the other gently fiddling with each of his fingers. Guiding into a curl and straightening, the briefest twitch as his thumb tensed into a curl, and Maxwell had turned his gaze, watched in an almost spellbound manner as Wilson stretched each and every finger he caught hold of, touching and petting and _feeling_ , bone talons scraping up against his oily sensitive dark skin and then clipping, dragging to his own blackened monstrous talons.

"These…" Wilson said, an almost whisper as his keen gaze only briefly glanced up to Maxwell's entranced face, "...are absolutely _breathtaking."_

Before Maxwell could formulate an answer, either internally or externally, Wilson nudged his hand up, warm palm open and bony, tapered shadow taloned fingers spread. Then the man adjusted his own hand up, mirroring the posture as he stretched out his bone talons to lay parallel, mimicked against Maxwell's hand.

The difference was stark, thick bone talons that breached the dark shadow corrupted skin, rolls of flesh that circled the enhanced bone of Wilson's locked dull fingers, and then the oily, smooth shine of Maxwell's own, thin, sharpened, almost hooked talons, the bony jut of each fingers enhanced bone structure-

The stockiness of heavy worked, survived and rough living palms, to those thin bones wrapped tight by thinner shadowy skin, age induced wrinkles and veins, scars that scrawled from the highest point of wrist to almost middle of arm, layers of bad mistakes and choices and _never true enough, William, never quite deep enough to finish the job you **coward** -_

Maxwell yanked his hand back, shock and tense tight air gritting his snaggle toothed jaws shut, pitch black eyes ever so slightly wide as something almost akin to terror, horror, _shame_ laced itself through his chest, and he clutched his ungloved hand close, hidden away against his chest as his shoulders fell and he leaned ever so slightly away from the other man's presence.

Wilson blinked, said nothing for a few moments as he opened his mouth briefly, then closed it as his brow drew low, the spark in his eyes burning down and unfueled once more. The wrinkles of his face turned his bearded mouth into an almost scowl, but his voice threaded with apology, faint remorse.

"...I, I do apologize, hadn't meant to overstep."

Maxwell didn't answer, clutching his ungloved hand tight and hidden away, hide away his more bare mistakes, his true choices that he had long ago made and now doomed himself and so many others with. The shadows encasing his hands, the ones he had allowed in, made deals with and taken to heart and oh so _loved_ , in exchange for all and everything-

Not even They felt the need to hide away the most obvious of scars.

Both men sat in silence, a long stretched out ambience as the fire crackled and popped, as the nightly sounds and shifting of the unknown drifted in barely catchable phrases from within the darkness, Maxwell curling himself in close as he reigned in the trembling almost hellfire burn of sensation, of being _touched_ , Wilson settling his hands in his lap and mulling it all over, gnawing on his lower lip as he belatedly scolded himself in just how brazen and blunt he had acted, careless in his movements and only engulfed in burning curiosity, burning interest and _need_ to see and know and understand.

His gaze drifted, for a moment, and then Wilson reached out and took the discarded glove he had by his side, brushing off bits of bark from the log bench that had caught to the old worn leather fabric.

Even now, away from those almost feverish feeling shadow taloned hands, the glove was undeniably quite warm.

Maxwell jolted, just the barest flinch as Wilson suddenly moved, a shift that turned himself towards him, and his automatic snarling of teeth and drawn down face, pitch black eyes narrowed in defiant displeasure, was entirely halted as Wilson held his worn glove out to him.

The former old Nightmare King froze, sullen and tense, the pitch black flashing as he seemed to consider speaking, before with a tense tremble, ungloved hand flexing in his lap, Maxwell snatched his offered glove back.

Then quickly stuffed his bare hand away, struggling with the tips and hooks before getting a grip to the collar end and giving it a few testing tugs. Only when his hand was entirely covered, sleeve hitched back down as to cover excess shadow veins or wandering thin, far too old scars, was Maxwell able to whistle out a strained, rattling wheeze of a breath.

Wilson got no answer from the other man for the rest of the night, just watched him curl up tighter, scoot closer to the fire and attempt to warm himself to its flames, gloved shadow taloned hands trembling ever so slightly from the cold, covering heated oily infused skin and those countless past mistake scars, layered and never hidden away enough.

**Author's Note:**

> ...I wrote this really, really late at night, so if it sounds odd there's my excuse.


End file.
